Fixing the Bandages
by MovementInGreen
Summary: Lisa felt like they were nothing.


_Fixing the Bandages _

A/N: This is somewhat of an introduction to an OC I've created for Silent Hill. It's vague because it's meant to be, but I hope that what I was trying to do can still be put across clearly. It's really a piece that I thought of not introducing, because I know that I have lots of competition here in the Silent Hill fandom. I just hope that you like it and will stick around for my OC's story, which I have been writing out in my head for almost a year now.

**Note from Author's Sister: I've done my best to edit and revise this for you, but I'm pretty sure there are still mistakes in here. I hope this won't stop you from enjoying my sister's story : O)**  
>-<p>

Lisa had always wanted to become an actress. It had been a dream she'd pined over for years as a child, a dream that she longed for more than cool water after a tiring day or a hug after attending a funeral. It was something she'd hopelessly yearned for and yet, she didn't pursue it, didn't reach out and _take_ it, even despite her father's urging to do so.

So there she went, fixing the bandages. Over and over, it was remove, dab, disinfect, stretch, cut, _snap_—and then she was undoing them again, rolling them over the charred body, blood and pus seeping profusely from wounds that she simply couldn't fathom. It was sickening. She was disgusting. She was nothing.

But this time it wasn't Her. It was a different body, this one more limber, this one soft, pliable but strong boned, and there was still a flash of supple, pretty white skin between the burns and the cuts and bruises. It was something she enjoyed feeling, something she found herself running her fingers back and forth over and over. It was disgusting. Lisa was sick. Lisa was nothing.

What had they done this time? Was this another poor child that they wanted to offer to some uncaring demon disguised as god, some demon with many names then one, then none? Lisa let out a small gasp as the child looked at her quietly, calmly, bright eyes red then pink then red again, twinkling even in the dull light. His head trembled slightly, and she was reminded of the beautiful white, spun gold that had once been there. The boy's hair was once beautiful, long and flowing, she remembered this. She'd always been happy to make visits to the boy and his mother's household, to inspect the wounds inflicted on him and make them better. They'd both been worried, eyes that were a completely different color but so painfully alike wide with both wariness and gratefulness, and she remembered always wanting to just run her hands through his hair and leave neat little braids behind in her wake.

Lisa remembered wondering why he would never cut it. Sure, it was a thing of beauty—but it made him a target.

But he was just a child. He wasn't disgusting. He wasn't sick. He was more than nothing.

And now, it made a deep pang in her damaged heart, to see all that beautiful whitish silk gone, and she could no longer see the light blondes in it when he turned his head a certain way. He _couldn't_ turn his head a certain way. It was probably too heavy.

"How are you feeling today? The doctor finally gave me the okay to tend to you." Lisa said stiffly, a sad attempt to break the awkard tension dancing about in the atmosphere. As she breathed in she could smell it, the smell of his tender flesh, rotten, torn, _burned_.

It was a dumb question. He couldn't answer. If he were able to, she was sure that the child would have cursed her very being, for having launched such an abstract query when he was in the condition he was.

"_Oh, I'm feeling wonderful. My skin feels the most smooth that it's ever been_," He would probably snap at her, and his words would be slurred with over drugging, pain, _bitterness_, skin drawn taut together. When Lisa found herself holding back hysterical laughter, she felt like the most pitiful thing ever.

The boy didn't speak, but he let out a shaky, moaning breath instead, and it sounded rough in the air, abrasive with hurt, like he was trying to form words but they were caught in his throat and wrestling with each other to see who would come out first. They barely reached past his lips, thin and crusted over with mistreatment and misuse. His voice was so small, it was almost nothing.

He let out another moan, and then another one, and the garbled, small sounds made the worse song Lisa had ever heard. His eyelids fell then, two small ovals of white against mottled brown and pink and black, and Lisa realized that he was crying. The tears wouldn't come, but the sobs were dry and loud, even through their smallness.

Remove, dab, disinfect, stretch, cut, _snap_

Lisa felt like they were nothing.

_Ask doctor to let me quit being in charge of those patients. It's too weird. _

_Both still alive, but with wounds that won't heal. _

_Told the doctor that I quit. Won't work at that hospital anymore. _

_The room is filled with insects. Even with the doors and windows shut, they get in just to spite me._

_Feeling bad. Need to throw up, but nothing comes out. Vomiting only bile. _

_Blood and pus flow from the bathroom faucet. I try to stop it, but it won't turn off. _

_The walls turn darker by the day. _

_Try not to look at the writings on the wall._

_Hearing whispers._

_The boy asks me why I didn't do more. _

_Need drug. _

_Help me..._


End file.
